Brief synopsis: This work transports you into a fictionalized version of Ireland. Here, the most famous of Irish writers (Joyce, O’Brien, Beckett, Behan, Stephens, etc.) come to life in characters that resemble their own creations. This motley band, full of the gift of gab, finds its way to the pub (where else?) and soon after has a day bursting with love, life, madness, death, music, whimsy, and a pint or two.
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A wretched-young, small specimen of a man lies flat out on his back in the midst of the rushes. His sharply tapered nose rubs up gently against the tall vegetation. This resting hole seems to have been the home of your man’s all-night doss. His ragged body and shagged-out eyes show signs of it. A bit too much you’d say. The rains play lightly on the tiny man, but he takes no notice of it being in such a saturated state already.
The wee man finds some strength and props his body up on one elbow. A mighty effort. He peers anxiously through the greenery.
Off a-ways the sight of a merry cow chews at her cud. She takes no particular notice of your man and just minds her own cowly business. Slip-slop, slip-slop go the bovine’s churning jaws bringing wonder and delight to her four stomachs. Your man’s head whirls. No, it’s not that he’s amazed by this interesting biological phenomenon. It’s just that it reminds him that it’s been a while since had breakfast himself.
Drawing himself to his feet your man jerks down his now skin-tight, water-soaked suit, smooths back his mousey-brown hair, and stumbles off. Where to? He had no idea. His unsteady motions alert the cow and her eyes follow your man as he passes behind her. Assured that he has no need of her assistance the sweet-eyed moo-cow resumes eating away. Grand ould girl
Reader: Good on you. Thanks for starting with that. Cows are some of the finest creatures. I love ‘em so. I had one meself back in ‘63 and…
Author: Sorry, but do you mind sharing your story a bit later. We’ve just begun, you know.
Reader: Oh, right you are. Carry on then.
Your man’s head swivels about him as his empty, twisted viscera reminds him again of the eatables he so badly needs. The crack last night was beyond that of his usual venture and it’s left him rather knackered*. He was able to touch-up many a-dandy dresser for the pint or two, despite his squalid appearance. Yes, ‘tis the compassion of the Irish to not look upon such men as pathetic souls. Made himself feel a bit of the celeb with so many offers to fill his glass. Their kindness must have been spread generously that night for they were good-natured enough to cart your man off and dump him in an empty field where he could sleep it off.
Finding a dirt road your man treads on in hopes of locating that of another human creature. The rains hold up and through his water-drenched eyes he sees the pinnacles of a nearby cathedral. His face brightens. Naturally there must be parishioners around. A functioning house of worship never goes to waste on this Island. The tiny, feculent man goes on.
A low-lying, opalescent mist crawls in and sits before him. It subsequently drowns out his sight. Fearing everything but the unknown, your man takes on a doughty spirit and enters in. All is milky-white. He rubs his eyes, respectively, to [ find proper discernment and understanding]. Nothing to be done. All is still milky-white.
Searching puppet-like through the midst your man gropes for the cathedral’s facade. Not to be found. Where’s it gone? He has no idea. The petite man staggers about probing and fumbling. Still nothing to be done. The niveous haze wraps around him causing his body to feel quite weighty. Your man drops to the ground, pants momentarily, and assumes a cross-legged
*Burke’s Dictionary of Modern Irish Slang states crack (written as craic) is a word meaning “a general good time”. It is in no way related to the American reference to a form of cocaine. So you can lower your eyebrow now, thank you.
posture. It is here he waits. For what? Your man has no idea of this idea either. Much time passes.
Then suddenly a voice. Your man pricks up an ear.
”Curious smell there is in this dark and light. Much like urine. Oh don’t be talking like that man. Takes you back to the heritage, you know, that last ingredient in the cord. But where’s the truss, the tie, the coalesce? Is she at the sides, the bottom, behind, above, inside, around? Or perhaps she’s beyond? Faith and she’s all in pieces and me without an empty pocket. For pity sake someone’s must pick them up I can barely see them anymore. Minuscule and many are they and the search strains my bowels. But it’s our lineage, our pedigree, and our lifeblood. Oh, don’t be talking like that man! Faith and it lies in tatters on the ground. There you go again. Seems to be quite a mess and me paralyzed at the wrists. Yes, it’s all such a shame, it is. Now get yourself together. But, but something’s surely missing. Something’s surely been misplace.”
The white-cloudy, aqueous vapor dissipates.
Your man suddenly realizes it was his own voice, laughs, and resumes his search. Before him now is a series of shops and houses. Each lines up nice-and-cozy-like to the neighboring one and each sits decoratively at the street’s edge. They are underscored with red-brick, anterior-quadrate windows, and hand-crafted, wooden doors. These quaint dwellings give off an aroma of country-like quality that brings you sensations of something so precious and so still.
Reader: I’ve always found it more like a feeling of lightness.
Author: Hmm, yes, lovely way of putting it.
The sweet smell of the morning peat breathes through his nostrils. Ahhh. Erect chimneys emit billowy pillows of smoke. Yes, peat, the cure for what ails the heart, mind, and soul on these chilly morns. And such is your man. The coldness of his dampened suit, finally nipping at his marrow, gives him just the right amount of impetus. To his left appears a grimy-little teahouse named after its place of residency. High Street. It should provide for what ails him.
CLOSED.
A colorful, hand-made sign stands out clearly against the door. Closed? Your man looks desperately for any signs of life. The cold, dull glass only reflects his wretched image. So will it ever open? He stares on. No one comes.
Plodding onward your man searches the streets. Each teahouse, coffeehouse and pub displays the same bright-hued CLOSED sign mocking his very desire for the basics of life. Still, your man walks on pushing his legs forward footfall after footfall stride after stride movement after movement your man cringes, his face becomes strangely pallor.
Your man‘s frame finally collapses before a familiar sight. It is the identical High Street teahouse with the self-same sign. He’s gone full-circle. The pavement accepts his body and there he rests.
His eyes flutter open after what could have minutes, hours, or maybe even days and before him is the curvature of a poorly-painted ceiling. Below his head is a thin-hard pillow and a holey-woolen blanket wraps around his body. A wire spring from the mattress below digs into his side. A wee bit of dust and dirt covers the brass frame that levitates the trestle off the floor. Beside him burns a bright-crackling fire.
Flopping his ill-treated form to the ground your man extends his fingers towards the flames. The fire brings on a prickly shake and direct heat gingerly creeps throughout his entire being, baptizing him in warmth. Much as a slow-burning fuse, transformingbuildingbreathingbringing life to his decaying shell. Your man yields his will to this sweet-epicurean sensation. A saintly smile dresses his features.
A wispy velvet-like fabric slides along your man’s wrists to reveal he is no longer clothed in his dampened suit. Following his arm to his shoulder to his chest to his stomach to his pelvis to his mid-thigh he finds he’s arrayed in a finely-woven, cerulean robe. Below this creature your man is vested in a handsome sleeping garment. All the material is of the chiefest quality and caresses him sweetly. Again, simpering-look graces his face.
Across from him on a rickety-worn table sits a ceramic teapot and teacup on a pleasant service-tray. A circular, stool-like chair of identical style as that of the table stands beside it. Occupying this seat is a lanky, personable-looking man, who, despite your man’s usual keen eye for detail, has been sitting there the whole time. His features are playful and cheery with a flavour of gaiety and contentment in his eyes that give him a pleasant enough disposition. A chestnut-tweed cap covers his head, while a terra-cotta suit dresses his extremities. Under his sports jacket is a matching velour vee-neck jumper and a faded undershirt. He holds a commiserative look as he stares on at your man and himself simply stares back.
The stranger stiffly takes up the teacup and sips silently. His eyes never leave the small man. This neither frightens nor amuses your man. The cup is soon returned to its saucer and the gaunt gentleman clears his throat with a still-muffled cough.
– Dia Dhuit, me saporous friend, and what a fine morning etez! , yes, yeh can call me Tadhg if et pleases yeh so. Yeh know yerself, he tells your man in a bright and lively tongue.
– Morning?
– Begob and what a beautiful morning etez! Duh sky ez a pleasant azure, a lovely lapis lazuli! Quite a divine day etez! Do you smoke?
Tadhg produces a small package of fags from his jacket’s inner fob and offers it to him.
Your man declines with an unconscious gesture.
– Don’t smoke too much meself anymore, dirty habit. Leaves me teeth in such a state.
Tadhg gives your man a wide-yellowy smile and replaces the fags back in an alternative fob after removing one for himself. In an adjacent pocket he draws out a tiny allumette and ignites with his thumbnail. A veil of smoke soon covers Tadhg’s face and he continues his talk.
– Are yeh duh son o’ a meat vendor?
Your man’s da’s profession or trade is unknown to him.
– A banker, perhaps?
– I don’t recall my father’s occupation.
– Oh, yes, yes, o’course, yer altogether right, forgive my enquiry! Dares a rat’er quare bit o’ news I was reading in duh Irish Writer’s Journal jusduh ot’er day. Seems dat William Butler Yeats had an extremely rotund left buttock. Imagine yer poet like, propped up on a pillow so, to write duh likes of Duh Swans at Coole or Sailing to Byzantium. Lord save us! What a balancing act dat must’ve been! Ah, duh poor man! Do you fancy poetry, yerself?
Tadhg leisurely takes another draw on his cigarette and funnels out a fine-stream smoke cloud.
– I’m what you’d call a follower, your man replies.
– Ahhhh, un ami des arts, good on yeh! Yes, duh true artis gratis artis, dat’s duh ticket. Dat eloquent versification, duh tongue of minstrels, declares Tadhg as his disposition takes on a serious tone. Duh eclogue, duh bucolic, duh idyllic, yes, dey enchant duh soul, inspiring and delighting duh whole self!
– I’m rather partial to dithyrambic verse and I much favour the Anacreontic . Yet, all those you mentioned were quite nice too.
– A chacon ses gouts. Would yeh – here, interrupting himself, Tadhg scratches away at a pink blemish in his nosetip and the resumes – I found a rat’er beauteous lyric, sweetly pleasant. Prick up an ear.
Your man pricks one up.
Tadhg offers:
A sanguine beauty is God’s-green-land
Practically untouched is her environs
Her silent, rolling hills and emerald knolls
Bring to the heart a deep, inner stillness
Grace is in her elegant glades, her
Oceans of heather, and her sweet woodlands;
And the finest hands work the land
Adding purity and patience to her charm.
‘Tis like every leafy bush speaks her soul.
‘Tis like her land and her people are one.
Your man flatuates quietly and replies, How lovely! A quite harmonious piece, but lend yourself to this quaint verse.
He recites:
A Protestant lady called Alice
Once peed in a Catholic chalice
“I do this,” said she,
“From a strong urge to pee
And not from sectarian malice.”
– You sir are a real Neide, a true Son o’Adna, one who would hold his legs well under Conchobhar Mac Nessa’s reign. Se non English vero, English ben trovato. Do you find yourself being a bit peckish?
Your man makes a silent response.
– Please, you look so deafly-t’in. Come and join me in me morning collation.
Your man rises, still without response, and Tadhg takes him by the arm. His legs are still shakedly-stiff from improper blood circulation, so Tadhg’s support is kindly appreciated. Meanwhile, your man’s mind tries to ascertain the number of possible days he’s been bed-ridden. The vanity of this search only gives him a worse pain to the head.
He resurfaces by eyeing a curious sight on the landing.
Behind a tall-slender slice of plywood lays a quite slumberous figure. He reclines rapturously through the slit of a make-shift door, which is hand-crafted out of that improvised plywood wall. He is bearded just so and clings tightly to a plump-ivory pillow. The sheets and blankets hug snugly to his body. They are smooth and fine-tailored as though they have just been pressed. He appears to be in splendorous comfort, all cozy and tranquil. The man makes absolutely no response to Tadhg or your man’s presence. Not a shake or a motion, just quiet-quiet sleep.
Tadhg declares, Dat’s Declan, somniferous fellow, he ez. Never once has he joined us in a ball o’malt at duh pub, nor has he come down to share our table, nor have I ever seen him wandering dese halls – leans closer to your man and whispers – Et ez me belief dat Old Dec here has been asleep all his born-days.
Your man studies Declan’s peaceful features.
Tadhg, still in a slight whisper, continues, Truthfully, for duh love o’God, I’ve never seen him rise. Siobhan usually sets a tray of victuals before his door daily in hope dat Old Dec will wake and eat like. But dese fine eatables usually sit all day and far into duh night. Yet, somehow duh tray is empty of its foodstuffs by dawn. I believe duh mice and ot’er tiny beasties enjoy dem while in duh dark o’night…Or begob, it could be Siobhan herself, for she’s rat’er persistent in her claim dat dat’s when Declan chooses to wake and eat. She’s always trying to get duh better o’me. But, I’ve never heard his footfall, never, and believe me, I’ve listened. Begob, sometimes I won’t allow meself a moment’s sleep all night because I’ll be listening for a hint o’motion. To dis day not a single stride nor gait, not a single movement have I heard and my hearing’s quite keen.
Perhaps he’s dead?
– Faith, dere yeh are, yeh sound just like Siobhan. I do have a key to his padlock, but so does he and never have I locked Declan in wit’out his consent. And since he’s never awake to my enquiries, I cannot rightfully lock him like. Can I?
– Then why do you possess a key to Declan’s padlock?
For emergencies or in case he’s forgotten to trick duh lock himself. I do so care for his welfare. Please, let us adjourn to duh dining room. Come on now, follow me down so.
– Your man examines Declan’s saporous form once more before taking to the stairs. Declan’s eyes are absent of REM-patterning, his body lies still in a serene repose. He appears extremely halcyon. Deeply snug.
Reader: Come here, what’s the story with Declan? Can a man actually sleep his life away?
Author: You know, I’m not even sure myself. What do you think?
In the dining-area Tadhg bustles about preparing room for them to eat. He skilfully removes half-soiled dishes, ceramic bowl full of soapy-liquid, and replaces them with two other plates uprooted from their dusty-pantry condition. With a tattered rag Tadhg wipes them free of cobwebs and other soddy specks. He works very meticulously, catching every curve and nick. He next takes up the cutlery, scrapes away spotty bits with his thumbnail, douses them in the self-same soapy-liquid, dries them with the tattered rag, and sets them beside the plates. Tadhg repeats the same procedure for the teacups. For each he is just as painstakingly fastidious.
Tadhg steps down into his cozy kitchenette, draws the kettle, and fetches four slice of brown soda-bread. Returning he finds your man sitting like the Prodigal before an empty plate.
– Give us a fork, well yeh? Asks Tadhg of your man.
He stares at the set of cutlery, forcing his mind to recollect that creature. It has been quite some time since he’s needed to make use of such a tool. His mind gathers what the one with the rounded edge is, a spoon. He disregards this and studies the remaining two as though he’s awaiting a word of knowledge from somewhere. Spikes, yes, the one with the spikes. That must’ve been the word.
Your man places the three-pronged utensil in Tadhg’s hand, who stabs it skilfully in the centre of one of the slices of soda-bread. Hiding under the table is a heating device, blazing brightly in red hotness. Tadhg crouches down in front of it, thrusting the innocent bread slice before the fiery heat. Moments pass and Tadhg, in a beautiful one-handed motion, slides the bread from the fork, twists it around, and replace it back on the fork. Soon after he sets the self-same slice on your man’s plate all nice and toasty. Tadhg resumes with the next slice by lancing its midsection and firing it up in identical manner. This one he also gives to your man. He then prepares the others for himself.
An array of brimful jamjars decorate the table as well as some farm-fresh butter wrapped in wax paper. Your man goes to work, spreading first the butter than the pulpy marmalade. Spread spread. As Tadhg pours him a healthy cup of Bewley’s your man focuses on each morsel laying before him, studying them patiently, as if he has never seen them before, or more rightfully stated, as if he shall never see them again. His eyes dart back and forth between the soda-bread slices frantic like. Making his selection your man scoops up the tawny sliver with a lightning-hand. Before ingesting it, he pauses, balancing it delicately on his fingertips, and deeply contemplating it as though it is some formable magnum opus. Your man places the bread between his lips as one receiving the Eucharist. Howumf howumf lap lap. A broad smile slips across his lips. Your man tucks in giving each bite-size morsel the self-same respect and devotion that he has given to the first; a jerky grab and a ritualistic pause full of silent admiration.
– Duh Lord between us and all harm, Tadhg offers with a knowing wink and an upraised cup.
Your man offers no words of reply, but lifts his coffee cup in response.
Your man roughly sups at his coffee watching Tadhg’s dawdling motions. His unhurried approach is nearly imperceptible. Movement after movement subtlety after subtly your man dares not dare squint any harder. He simply swallows down his Bewley’s in a single gulp, slumps back into his chair, belches, and collapses in a narcoleptic nap.
Sweet dreams.